#russian literaure

[septemberkisses]

March - the month of dreams and hopes.

Excerpts from:

Warm Moon by Mary Oliver • With the Fog So Dense on the Bridge in Almond Blossoms and Beyond by Mahmoud Darwish, tr. Mohammad Shaheen • The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab • Pinterest • March by Hannahrowrites • Great Expectations by Charles Dickens • To March by Emily Dickinson • Worth the Wait by Schuyler Peck • Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath written c. February 1953 • Second Dedication by Anna Akhmatova, tr. D.M. Thomas •

[high-sea-husbands]

No, you don’t understand. Reading Dostoyevsky or any kind of Russian literature is not difficult in itself. But identifying everyone and their relations and rembering everyone’s 4th newly introduced name is.

[glassribbon]

The human race goes forward, perfecting its powers. One day all that’s beyond its reach now will become close, clear, but we must work, we must give all our strength to helping those who seek the truth.

Anton Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

[benpleaseenoughwithsims-blog]

[silence]

Yesterday  A. and I were talking about our favorite poems. I don’t like poetry generally. Or to be more precise, I don’t understand the essence of poetry. I studied literature before, almost for five years, and I can somehow understand some poetic basics, but usually poems don’t connect with me in any way. I can admire it from more mathematical perspective: how was it composed and how precise rhythm is, but usually I don’t feel anything, while reading poetry. There are five exceptions, and I want to share one of them, because it’s so breathtakingly beautiful, so I feel that it is a sin to keep it to myself. The original poem was written by Fedor Tutchev, back in 1830, in Russian language. But almost in a century it was translated to English by Vladimir Nabokov, and it is something exceptional. (Am I overselling it?)

                                     Silentium!

               Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal                the way you dream, the things you feel.                Deep in your spirit let them rise                akin to stars in crystal skies                that set before the night is blurred:                delight in them and speak no word.

               How can a heart expression find?                How should another know your mind?                Will he discern what quickens you?                A thought once uttered is untrue.                Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:                drink at the source and speak no word.

               Live in your inner self alone                within your soul a world has grown,                the magic of veiled thoughts that might                be blinded by the outer light,                drowned in the noise of day, unheard...                take in their song and speak no word.

[finita-la-commedia]

All faith is lost; hope seems a mere pointless illusion; the capacity for thought grows dull and disappears: the divine fire has forsaken it. . . . Everything retreats into the body, everything rushes into carnal dissipation and, to compensate for the absent higher spiritual impressions, turns to anything capable of exciting sensuality to stimulate the nerves and the body

Fyodor Dostoevsky, from “The Brothers Karamazov”

[po-polsku]

But now they sat without a word, hardly breathing, overcome by the absurdity of the whole thing.

Doctor Zhivago Boris Pasternak

[somstory]

The Return - Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward

The souls of all my dears have flown to the stars. Thank God there’s no one left for me to lose– so I am free to cry. This air is made for the echoing of songs.

A silver willow by the shore trails to the bright September waters. My shadow, risen from the past, glides silently towards me.

Though the branches here are hung with many lyres, a place has been reserved for mine, it seems. And now this shower, struck by sunlight, brings me good news, my cup of consolation.

[rie-lay]

Well, didn’t expect to first encounter Tolstoy’s dark humor on my first time reading his work